Lonely, Sick Men, With Lonely, Sick Hearts
by Yombatable
Summary: England and Scotland had a lot of flights, and they try to avoid them, but with a love like theirs, it truly is unavoidable. ScotEng. One-shot.


**So I was at a bbq avoiding family earlier and shat this out to make it look like I was doing something so my family wouldn't drag me into awkward conversations about school. And even though it's horrifically generic I kinda like it so I'm gonna post it.**

 **Enjoy! ;)**

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"Are you really going to-" Scotland hesitated over his words, unsure exactly what he wanted to say, but absolutely sure he didn't want what was happening right now.

England, who was facing away from him, pointedly avoiding his gaze as he struggled to keep his face straight and cold, didn't reply, his expression wavering for a moment. But Scotland couldn't see that.

(England and Scotland had a lot of fights. Usually they were small, over who had the better football team, what they were going to watch on TV, or who the fuck left the cats out in the rain, god damn it Scotland, I told you to let them in you bloody pisshead! They would fight, be angry, rant to whichever friend of theirs would listen, realise they were being stupid and fall back into each other's arms just like they always did (usually with a round of sex that Scotland would grin about dreamily for a few days, and England would grin smugly about for about as long). But every so often they had a big fight, one that shook the walls with slamming doors, broke their voices with hoarse shouts, and ended in one or both of them falling into the beds of someone who didn't know they were just unwitting adulterous argument-fuelled sex (they were awful for each other really, a festering fruit slowly rotting, because truly two such spitfire personalities couldn't have such a spitfire love as theirs without crashing and burning. Not really).

They tried to avoid these fights (any sane person couldn't enjoy seeing the one they claim to love with all their lonely sick hearts tearing into them and throwing those same hearts into the sewage-filled gutter) but they were unavoidable for people like them, always a misstep, a wrong word, a careless action away.

And it broke their lonely sick hearts.

Even still, never had one of these fights been unfixable.

Sure, it had sometimes taken weeks, countless sheets of undone paperwork, more than a few bottles of whiskey or rum (or some other kind of alcohol that was good at letting one forget their troubles for as long as it remained in their system and not the inviting porcelain bowl that was the toilet), and their friends and family telling them that they needed to pull their heads out of their arses, but never had it resulted in less than a slightly tearful apology, a sweet kiss, and a sweeter round of sex (complete with enough love confessions to drown Cupid himself, and more shaking tears and tender touches than either of them would ever have the world know they were capable of).

So Scotland couldn't fathom what he'd done so wrong this time).

"Can you at least tell me what I did?" Scotland finally decided, his voice breaking a little.

England coughed, a clearing of the throat to un-gum his mind, "I'm sorry Scotland, I just-" he took a deep breath, still refusing to meet Scotland's eyes, "I can't- I don't know what to say that would make you happy."

"I don't want happy!" Scotland exclaimed, "I want to understand!"

"There's nothing to-"

"Bullshit! If you ever loved me you'd give me a good fucking reason!"

England flinched, but didn't turn around, and didn't reply.

"You've never not accepted my apology," Scotland said, his voice getting small and just a little broken, "I come to you and- and you glare at me and then I say sorry and then you smile like a fucking angel and kiss me and say you're sorry too. That's how this works. What's different this time?"

England seemed to curl in a little on himself, his arms that were previously crossed angrily, now clinging protectively to himself, as if afraid he would run away if not held still.

"At least look at me," Scotland as good as pleaded, "England, give me that."

England shook his head, "If I do that I won't be able to go through with this."

Scotland was stopped in his tracks for a moment by that answer, his heart doing a not quite flip not quite squeeze to represent an emotion he couldn't place, "What do you-"

"We're awful for each other Scotland!" England shouted, turning rather suddenly around to reveal the tears that were brewing in his eyes (a sight that caught Scotland so off guard he almost thought about running, but his feet had turned to concrete and kept him firmly in place).

"We fight! We make up! We fight again! Don't you see this is never going to be what you want?" England tugged at his own hair, ignoring the tear tracks now staining his cheeks, "You deserve better than whatever fucked up version of a relationship we've clumsily duct-taped together! All we do is hurt each other, and sure there are good times but- We can't-" he gasped to hide a sob, "We can't keep doing this, I don't want to keep doing this, you don't want-"

"Don't you dare tell me what I want!" Scotland growled, slamming his fist into the wall to catch England's frantic attention, "I'll tell you what I want."

He walked over to England, making the shorter nation back up until he hit a wall, Scotland's arms closing him in a somehow comforting enclosure, "I want you to stop being stupid and let me make my own decisions," he sighed, dropping his head so they were at eye level. England clamped his eyes shut, turning his head to avoid Scotland's gaze.

"Please don't do this."

(His voice was so soft. So vulnerable. And in that moment Scotland was sure it wasn't England's voice. Not at all.

It wasn't his venomous, sharp, biting England. It wasn't his sweet, nervous, charming England. This was something new.

And Scotland never wanted to hear it again).

"Are you that desperate to be rid of me?"

England choked on his words for a moment, before he shook his head. His small "No," was almost too quiet to hear, but as soon as Scotland did he leant down as sealed their lips together softly.

England didn't kiss back, but when Scotland tried to pull away he clamped his hands into his jumper to hold him in place, their lips gently brushing, but not kissing. This wasn't the time for kissing. They shared (shaky, uneven) breaths for a while, their eyes closed, their hearts leaping around with no clue what to do.

(Both of them wondered in that moment how they'd come to this, this helpless game of hate and love and push and shove, and never really going in anything but endless and confusing circles. They weren't sure they could call it love, if it was it was some sick mans version of it, but they were sick men, the both of them, and if there was anyone who could understand the mind of a sick man, it was another one).

England's "I'm sorry, I love you," was never said out loud, but Scotland could feel it against his lips, and sucked in a long breath in response.

Scotland's "I know, it's okay, I love you too," was just as quiet, and England's face scrunched up painfully and dragged him forward the tiniest amount into the tiniest of kisses, heartbreaking in its caution, and boundless in its meaning.

(So perhaps it was a lonely, sick mans love that they shared. But for these lonely, sick men, that was enough.

Yes, this was enough).


End file.
